


Buried, Alive

by Anonymous



Category: Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Bestiality, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Pregnancy, Kidnapping, Knotting, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Other, Painful Sex, Pregnancy, Rape, Raped While Pregnant, Shapeshifting, Stomach Bulge, Suicidal Thoughts, Urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23125831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Red doesn't know for sure how long it's been. The only way she has to measure time is by the swelling of her belly. She'd guess she's three months along? Maybe four? She hasn't yet felt the child (if it is a child) kick. Sometimes she hopes she never will.This story contains a pregnant rape victim having suicidal thoughts. Please don't read it if that would be harmful or upsetting to you.
Relationships: Big Bad Wolf/Little Red Riding Hood (Little Red Riding Hood - Fairy Tale)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 93
Collections: Anonymous, Fic Journal of the Plague Year, Teratophilia Trade 2020





	Buried, Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harpalyke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harpalyke/gifts).



Red doesn't know for sure how long it's been. The only way she has to measure time is by the swelling of her belly. She'd guess she's three months along? Maybe four? She hasn't yet felt the child (if it is a child) kick. Sometimes she hopes she never will.

The woodcutter lives in a little log house. She's walked past it many times on the way to Grandmother's. It probably has a soft bed, and a fire burning merrily in the fireplace. Red can smell its woodsmoke sometimes. She doesn't want to sully memories of her home and her parents by thinking of them now, so she tries to imagine herself in the log house, in the soft bed, as the wolf snarls in her ear and presses her down into the damp leaves that carpet his dark, cold burrow.

No matter how she tries to send her mind away, reality intrudes with the wolf's misshapen organ shoving between her thighs. She fought when the wolf first brought her here, but the fight has been raped out of her. She kneels quietly now, her head hanging down and her nose full of the smell of his musk and the moldering leaves, as he prods at her. Finally he finds what he seeks. The force of his thrust into her dry, tight passage drives a grunt out of her, and she can't help whimpering as he ravages her. 

Red's always had a good imagination. She used to lie in her bed and touch herself while thinking of the husband she'd have someday. She imagined a short, gentle man with kind hands who never inflicted more than a tweaked nipple or a love-bite. She never imagined a furry pelt rubbing against her back, a cold snout pressing into her neck, heavy clawed paws scuffing at her sides and back and leaving little scratches in their wake. The thick, bulging organ pushing ever deeper into her, nudging at her womb as though he would make her pregnant twice over if he could. A mate who cares nothing for her pleasure.

Sometimes she even indulged in fancies about the woodcutter, who always ducked his head shyly so she couldn't see his eyes and called her Miss Red so nicely. That was before she knew that he was hiding a wolf's yellow eyes, and that behind the tidy log house was a den, and that in the den was just enough room for a girl to kneel, her curving belly beginning to tug at her, as a wolf covered her body with his.

The wolf huffs and begins to move more urgently. Red feels a terrible chafing inside, rubbed raw over and over by his predation. Awkwardly, she reaches down and rubs at herself, urging her body to find pleasure in this mimicry of the act of love. Over the weeks and months of this, she's gradually trained herself to be aroused by the wolf sawing into her, the sensation of fullness, the stretching, the pain. Her juices flow hesitantly, but they flow, and her body begins to open up and take the wolf more easily. She moans softly, hating herself even as she pleasures herself. Someday, perhaps, she will have accepted this entirely as her lot in life, and the wolf's pungent scent will be enough to turn her on. For now, she works at it, knowing no other way to ease her misery.

The wolf doesn't care, of course. She's not sure the wolf would care if she were dead. She's no longer sure she would care either.

A thick bulge begins to grow inside her and she moans again, this time in pain and dread. She hates this part most of all. The wolf claws at her back and bites her shoulder, the fresh cuts burning more where they cross half-healed older ones, though the burning inside her is worse. Blood trickles down her side and somehow that ticklish feeling is what makes her flinch. Excited by her movement, the wolf humps her faster. Then he growls deep in his throat and his hips begin to shake against hers as his seed fills her, and fills her, and fills her.

An impossible pressure builds inside of Red. Her womb is full; her cunt is plugged. The wolf's prodigious spend has nowhere to go. She weeps silently as she feels herself swell with it, a second, smaller bulge below her bulging belly. At first it feels like having a too-full bladder, but she pisses herself in desperation, and the pressure only grows. 

The wolf huffs at the acrid scent of her urine and tries to bend to sniff at it. Red cries out as his movements tug at the enormous knot locked inside her. She wants it out, but not—

The wolf's hind paws slip in the leaves. He yelps and scrabbles for purchase, clawing Red's back, but he's already half off her and gravity does the rest. Red shrieks and collapses onto her side as the wolf's knot is yanked out of her, tearing her fragile flesh. A river gushes out of her and she has a terrified moment of wondering whether the baby is coming early—it was like this when her little brother was born, all blood and fluid and pain. But her abdomen is the only part of her that doesn't hurt. She cradles it, the way she wishes some force of love and kindness would cradle and protect her, and sobs.

The wolf laps roughly at her cunt with his long, pointed tongue, tasting his seed mingled with her slickness and blood and urine and the rawness of her wounds. Red rolls away, clamping her legs together against the agony. "Stop," she whispers, her voice hoarse with disuse, "stop, please, stop, please..."

The wolf contorts and unfolds in a horrifying explosion-implosion of fur and flesh. The wet sound of it is nauseating. She's grateful that she can't see it, but the first time she witnessed the transformation was in full daylight, and the image is burned into her mind forever. 

A moment later, a man crouches naked next to her. "Oh, Miss Red," the woodcutter says, patting her tearstained cheek. "Haven't you learned by now not to deny me?"

She closes her eyes as though that could make him go away. As though somehow, paradoxically, it would lessen the dark. "Yes," she whispers.

He grabs her hair and yanks her to him, muffling her cry of surprise and pain by forcing his thick organ into her mouth. To her shock and disgust, his bottom half is still a wolf's, still drenched and sticky, and she gags on the taste of his musky emissions and her own piss and blood as he invades her throat. "I get what I want," he pants, yanking on her hair. "I always get what I want."

Red used to dream of escape, until he told her he'd kill her parents if she set foot outside the burrow. Then she dreamed of killing him, though she wouldn't even know how. Now, her head swimming as she struggles for air, she dreams of making him angry enough to kill her. She's not quite brave enough to try. But soon, she thinks as she feels the first tentative flutter from whatever monstrosity lurks in her womb, she will be soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes for Fic Journal of the Plague Year:
> 
> I wrote this just as the pandemic was looming over New York City, where I live. I posted it the same day my child's school closed, the day that I rode the subway for the last time before hunkering down. We hadn't yet entered the timeless time of isolation, but rereading the story three months later as I write this author's note, that first paragraph feels prescient.
> 
> At the time, I felt like everyone around me was saying "Let's write fluff! Time for kitten pics!" while I was full of dread and grief and rage. When I signed up for Teratophilia Trade (a flash exchange with a short timeline), I specifically gamed to get this assignment because Harpalyke's signup was full of requests for grim things and their DNWs included happy endings. I knew I could put absolutely everything I was feeling into this fic without having to hold back. And I did. It's the darkest thing I've ever written, and when I was done, I felt... cleaner. Lighter.
> 
> I don't know whether anyone's ever read it except Harpalyke and me, but that was enough for me to feel like all my pain and anger had been seen and recognized. The relief of that got me through some very hard weeks.


End file.
